


body and soul

by LittleRaven



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, star wars: attack of the clones
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s03e01 Anne, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s02e21-22 Becoming, Post-Episode: s0301 Anne, Sex, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex, Woman on Top, dubcon, the great facilitator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-28 22:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/pseuds/LittleRaven
Summary: In need of relief, Buffy and Anakin make their own oasis, with a little help they didn't ask for.





	body and soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zarabithia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/gifts).



On the road away from hell and she heads right back on to a different one, Buffy thinks. The sun burns hotter than it ever did in California. Two of them, even. God. She grits her teeth and hauls herself upright on the bloodied sand. Her feet sink into it; she corrects the stagger almost as soon as it starts, covering her face. Buffy has never before thought of hell having a sky. 

Takes all kinds. She wipes her forehead, looks at the smear on her hand. The sand is gravel on her skin. She turns towards the bodies behind her: the demons of this world, she assumes. Tents all around; they must be nomads. Good, she thinks. They don’t just pop out of the sand when you least want them. The woman she’d freed seems not to have been too damaged, judging from her ability to run when told. Also good. Buffy’s not sure she can perform another rescue. 

One fight after coming back to the Slayer and she’s already tired. She pushes that thought away, then  
begins to walk through the camp. There’s no shelter. She can sense others in the tents; if they won’t fight, she won’t fight, and staying could change that. There could be food. She hopes there’s water. 

Trudging into an empty tent, hands over her face, eyes tearing in the light, she sits on a bedroll. The motion becomes a collapse. There is a satchel lying next to it. Buffy takes it, stumbling back up to her feet, forcing herself into a run. 

More sand, now, and nothing else in sight. 

Buffy fumbles, tears the bag open, strong fingers clumsy with the effort, and reaches inside. Something smooth is under her hand, smelling sweeter than anything since she’d hopped on that bus to L.A. She takes the packet out and squeezes. Powder explodes around her, and she blinks into the purple shower, too bright for her sun-weary eyes. She closes them, searching for relief. 

It’s warmer, somehow. It’s warmer and then there is something else, a sound. A hand on her sweat-soaked cheek, a hand Buffy leans into, whimpering without thought. She recognizes the feel of calluses on it. It’s a good heat now. She looks into the blue eyes staring at her. Yes. Good. Better. Suns bad, hands good. 

The hand slides into her hair, on the back of her head, and she is in the air, and she lifts her head to kiss him. 

He staggers, and it is her hand on his face now, on his neck, his shoulder, keeping her grip as her head swims and his mouth opens under hers, licking sweat and powder off her lips. Her feet hit the ground again, her hand slips; she slides down his body onto the sand again, looking up to meet a face equally dazed. 

He kneels beside her, watching, and when she lifts her hand to reach he takes it, pushes it back down to her side, holds it as he bends over and kisses her again, firm—she makes it firmer still, and his other hand presses against the back of her head, pushing. Buffy sighs. Too warm, too warm, and he stops squeezing her hand to stroke up her side and squeeze at her breast. She whimpers again, lets him keep kissing her, tugs at his braid as he moves down her neck, his hands under her shirt. She rolls it up with her other hand, tugs his hair harder at the bite on her nipple—he stops, red-faced, and she immediately pushes his face back down into her breasts, pleased when he gets to licking, sucking. 

Darker hair is before her eyes then, dark as the body it belongs to is pale. Buffy stiffens, suddenly cold. She flinches from the fingers on her face, and he is there again, this sandy-haired boy, eyes confused, hesitant, drawing back though she could feel the heat inside him. Her own stirs. Buffy looks him in the eye. She tugs her pants down, wriggling on the ground as they come off. Her panties follow. 

That’s the look she wants to see in his eyes. Holding his gaze, she pushes herself up and falls into him, pulling at the rough clothes he wears. He lets her, hands on her hips, keeping her upright as she has her way, groaning at the sound of her ripping through the cloth and leather, sinking her fingers into the smooth muscles of his back. 

He lifts her up then, mouthing at the breasts bobbing in his face; her hands dig into his shoulders and his hands slide down from her hips to her cheeks, squeezing. He cups between them, cups her. She squeals. 

His breath stops. She can hear it. It makes her own stop, too; she lets the hand stay, wet against the gritty sand and rough skin of it. A moment later, she rubs against it. He stares up from between her breasts. She rubs again, harder. He kisses her chest, then, keeps attending to it with his mouth while his hand strokes up, up, letting the press of her legs give him more reason to stop breathing. One hand on her back, as if she needs the help sticking to him, the other between her thighs, then back up over her cheeks and she knows how well she’s stripped him when he pushes her down onto his waiting cock. A different kind of rubbing, now. 

Her turn to make him squeal, she thinks, head clear through all its swimming. She pushes him onto his back. He watches her ride him, mouth open. Not any more experienced than she. Buffy spares the thought a second, enjoys the sweetness of it, leans down to kiss him gently. Slower than her hips moving his, making him arch. 

He pulls her down, holds her close as she comes; he feels her pleasure—she can tell and does not question why. It does not occur to her to question how she feels his own, of course. It’s good. Body, good. No bad. 

He kisses the top of her head, pulls her up to kiss her temple, her cheek. She could go on, she knows, though she should be even more tired than when she started. The heat, in a lull, spikes back up. So does his cock against her backside. 

When it’s finally gone, he is still there, face buried in her neck. He lifts it, searching her face. Her head spins, the clarity of lust gone. She is sweaty, and sandy. He is sweaty, and sandy. She pushes him off. She can’t stand, and she doesn’t try. Her eyes are full of him, then of memory. It’s not until he touches her face that she knows she is crying. 

She can see the lines of tension on his face; before he can leave she grabs his arms, pulling herself up to sit, crying, on his chest. 

Buffy can’t understand anything he says. It’s enough that he holds her as the tears flow. He is warm, a different kind of warm than the sex —she doesn’t know why, and it doesn’t matter. 

It’s a feeling, and she thinks, looking up at him before she closes her eyes once more, that he knows how to follow those.


End file.
